


Nine Scenes

by izzybeth



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there's no mercy in a live wire, no rest at all in freedom<br/>of the choices we are given it's no choice at all<br/>the proof is in the fire you touch before it moves away<br/>but you must always know how long to stay and when to go<br/>patti griffin - let him fly</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Scenes

**Author's Note:**

> written for [vecchiofest](http://community.livejournal.com/vecchiofest/) on LJ (prompt #12). love to natlet and justbreathe80 for generous and brilliant (and eleventh hour) beta services.

1.

"Ray."

"Shut up, Pop."

"I'm telling you this for your own good, son."

"Do not call me that."

"This girl is no good, she--"

"Pop, _shut up_."

"You listen to me. She's got no connections, her family is useless, she is useless to us! Why you don't marry the Zuko girl I'll never know, that would at least be useful--"

"Pop, you shut up. You shut up and you listen to me for once. I love Angie. I don't care if-- Christ, I'm gonna be a cop! Zuko would have my head blown off if I tried to marry Irene, how do you not understand that? And fuck the Zukos anyway. I love Angie. I love her and I'm gonna marry her, and you can say whatever the hell you want, it's gonna happen."

"Fine. You go right ahead, marry your little piece of trash, see where it gets you. Don't think I'll be there."

  
2.

"Ray, where have you been?"

"Sorry, Ange, Kelly wanted me to go look at the scene again--"

"After an eighteen hour day? It's almost eleven. I kept some dinner for you, if you still want it."

"God, I'm sorry. I just want 'em to really throw the book at this weasel, you know?"

"I know." Angie sighed and turned around in the chair, focusing on the pile of papers on the kitchen table in front of her.

Ray walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. "Whatcha doing?"

"The bills, Ray."

"Oh."

"I still can't believe you bought that damn car, that was all our savings--"

"Angie, we talked about--" The phone rang. "I got it, you just-- hello? Ma, hi-- now's not a--" Ray threw a pained look at his wife and pulled the phone cord around the corner into the hallway.

"We were finally gonna go on our honeymoon." Angie twisted her mouth up at the stack of bills.

"--no, Ma, I'm in the middle of a big case--"

Angie gathered up the bills, shoved them into a drawer, and put the pasta in to heat up.

  
"Good tortellini, hon."

"Ray."

"Come on, Ange, do we gotta fight over dinner?"

"Our savings, Ray. All our plans for that money."

"I know, babe--"

"I don't think you do. You obviously didn't when you bought that car."

"That car is my dream car--"

"Exactly. It's _your_ dream car. Your dream, not mine, not _ours_. It was selfish and thoughtless and now we're barely breaking even with rent and utilities, not to mention payments on my car. Forget putting anything in savings."

Ray chewed a forkful of pasta and stalled before speaking. "It's that bad?"

"Yeah, it's that bad."

They ate in silence for a moment.

"Look, Ray-- can you clean up? I just want to go to bed."

"Angie, honey, things will get better, I promise. This case, you know it's a big one. If we bust this guy, I'll get noticed by the brass and that detective promotion is mine, I swear, and you know that means a decent raise--"

"It's not just the money, Ray." Angie stood up and carried her plate to the sink. "Things are-- it's not just the money."

Ray stared down at his uneaten pasta. "I love you, Angie."

"I love you too, hon. 'Night."

A few hours later, Ray crept into bed next to his wife, careful not to wake her.

  
3.

"I'm sorry, Ray."

"No, I understand."

"I didn't mean to yell at you. I didn't want to." Angie swiped quickly at her eyes. Like she was the one with a good excuse to cry.

"Hey, it just goes with the genes, right?" Ray rubbed a hand over his face.

"Please-- please don't fight me on this one."

"Didn't plan on it."

"Okay. That's-- that's good."

"Good. Yeah. Right."

"God, Ray, please don't." Angie leaned heavily against the doorway she stood in and clutched her suitcase tighter.

"You just told me you want a divorce, what the hell do you want from me?"

"I want-- I don't know. I don't want anything from you."

"That's obvious."

"Sarcasm, wonderful. Screw you too, Ray. I didn't want to end it angry."

"I didn't want to end it at all."

"Yeah, well-- look, I'm gonna go stay with my sister tonight. I'll be back tomorrow to pack my stuff. You know."

"Yeah. Fine." Ray stared pointedly at the floor.

"Ray--"

"Angie, please."

Ray turned away as Angie nodded and pulled the front door closed behind her. He dug the whiskey bottle out from the cabinet above the fridge as he listened to her car pull out of the driveway.

  
4.

Shouts erupted across the bullpen, and a chair tipped over as a couple of uniforms manhandled a skuzzy-looking guy down towards booking. Ray swung his head around to check out the action and immediately winced. His neck was still giving him grief, even a few weeks after his flying leap from an exploding apartment.

_Which really ought to say it all,_ Ray thought. He popped a couple Tylenol and washed them down with cooling coffee. _Disgusting_.

He wandered into the break room to refill his mug. The pot sat almost empty on the hot burner, filling the room with the stink of old, scorched coffee. Ray dumped it out and set the machine to make a new pot. His neck twinged again and he scowled.

It wasn't like he'd asked for any of this, you know? Okay, so he probably would have gotten busted for entrapment if the Mountie hadn't poked his nose in, so he supposed that was all right, but honestly, everything that went down after that? Ray could have happily done without it. Dogsleds and semi-automatic weapons, Christ. And really, a Mountie? In Chicago? Come on. It sounded like a stupid sitcom. As if Canada really required a police presence in a whole other country.

But it looked like the Constable was sticking around, if the breathing statue wearing Fraser's face Ray had seen the other day outside the Consulate had been any indication.

Ray settled back at his desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He shuffled a few files around, not really looking at them. Welsh had been after him to get a partner. Ray wondered if a legal alien would do.

  
5.

"Try not to bleed on the upholstery," Ray joked.

"I shall do my best, Ray."

Ray glanced over at Fraser and frowned. Even half in shadow under a dim streetlight, he looked like hell. "Jesus, look at you. Let me take you the hospital, okay?"

"No, that won't be necessary."

"What do you mean, 'that won't be necessary'? You look like death, Fraser. You need more than just some half-assed first aid."

"I'll be perfectly fine, Ray. Let's just go back to the precinct and make our report. Mr. Paducci will be safe there."

Fraser's voice was ridiculously calm in Ray's ears, despite the muted notes of pain hidden in it. And the composure only pissed Ray off. "Why do you think you gotta be so damn stoic all the time? You're human, right? Last time you checked? Christ, you must be the most infuriating man in the world, I swear to God."

"Ray--"

"Shut up, Fraser. Just-- what is your problem? Hired goons beat you half to death. You are seriously injured. And you don't want to go to the hospital. I don't-- I just don't get it, okay? Why won't you take care of yourself? Why won't you just let me--" Ray shut his mouth and slammed a fist onto the top of the Riv.

"Let you what, Ray?"

"Nothing." Ray leaned against the side of his car, suddenly worn out. "Nothing. Let's get back to the station. Whatever."

"I'll be fine, Ray. Elaine's knowledge of first aid is more than adequate."

"Yeah."

  
6.

It was Fraser's influence rubbing off on him, Ray figured. Three years ago, there wouldn't have been any power in the universe, up to and including God Himself, that could have persuaded Ray to take an assignment like this. The Ray Vecchio of three years ago didn't stick his neck out for anyone. Especially not for the feds. The Ray Vecchio of now, however, apparently realized that the world did not in fact revolve around him and his town.

And it was all Constable Benton Fraser's fault.

Ray supposed there were worse things than impersonating a mob boss. Drowning on dry land, for one. A murdering psycho hijacking your tiny plane, crashing it in the Canadian wilderness, and then trying to kill you and your partner, for another. Pemmican, probably.

The agents, Smith and Jones (Ray thought _yeah, right_) had swooped in and carted him off to some anonymous house in the suburbs, hardly allowing Ray to kiss his mother goodbye, let alone pack a bag. And they started calling him _Mr. Langoustini_ right away, smirking bastards.

During his second night in the little house, Ray realized he might not get to say goodbye to Fraser at all. He squashed the sudden sadness at that thought, but then found himself thinking of all the stuff he'd say to Fraser if he had a chance. _You're certifiable. Your licking habit is disturbing and wrong, not to mention unsanitary and likely to get you killed one of these days. What, you got a death wish? Honestly. And you owe me big for all those suits of mine you trashed, and all that trouble you got me into. And out of. Christ, Benny. See, I gotta get through this thing, because I gotta-- I don't know, beat your head in or kiss you, one of those._

Two weeks later, Ray made one last stop at the 27th to wrap things up with Welsh and clean out his desk. The telephone sat on top of it, daring him silently. He raised an eyebrow at Welsh, who nodded once. Ray grabbed the phone and dialed the number he'd memorized that Fraser had given to him weeks ago. The ringing echoed in Ray's ears like it came from a different planet or something. _The Yukon might as well be_.

Ray pressed the phone to his ear to hear a very earnest young Mountie promise to fetch Constable Fraser to the phone, and then waited a good fifteen minutes, soft static whooshing down the line.

"Hello, Ray?"

"Hey, Benny, how's the vacation going?" As Fraser talked, Ray's head filled with all the things he'd wanted to say. He felt like a shit.

"Listen... I'm just calling to let you know that I may not be there at the train to pick you up."

  
7.

"Come to Florida with me."

"What?"

Ray grinned and stroked the back of Stella's hand with his thumb. "Come on. What the hell, right? When was the last time you did something completely crazy?"

Stella wrinkled her nose in a little self mocking smile. "That would probably be when I married Ray."

Ray's grin faltered a bit but he just held Stella's hand tighter. So what if Kowalski had gotten Fraser in the end? Ray had the rest of his life to grab whatever happiness he could, and if said happiness happened to include Kowalski's drop-dead gorgeous ex-wife, well, good. "Hey, forget that. Forget all of it, right? I bet you look fantastic in the sunlight."

Stella's crooked grin grew into a genuine, radiant smile. "You're right. I do." She smoothed her free hand over her lap, looking thoughtfully at the fine grey wool of her business suit. "Let's do it."

Any leftover remnants of Armando fell away when Stella smiled. Ray felt like he could run for miles, leap tall buildings, fly to the moon. Ray felt like himself again. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're absolutely right. The hell with Chicago, let's go to Florida." Stella's eyes sparkled like a naughty teenager's, and Ray fell even more in love. "We'll-- I don't know-- we'll run an arcade or something. Something local, not touristy at all."

"A bowling alley."

"Exactly."

Ray's eyes dropped down to their hands, curled together against the black of his trousers. He started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"What do you say I take you out for dinner first?"

"Before Florida?"

"Yeah, before Florida. Tonight."

"I could handle that."

  
8.

Stella's hair moved lightly around her face in the warm night breeze through the open window. Ray sat on the edge of the bed, studying how the sheet fell in folds and shadows over her sleeping body. Everything looked better in the dark, he decided. The translucent curtains floated over the window, allowing only glimpses of the palm trees and the garden. Their bedroom looked like a Monet-- hazy and blue and insubstantial. Stella was an ancient Mesopotamian goddess come to life and sleeping naked in Ray's bed.

Ray rolled his eyes at his over-romanticizing and pulled on an undershirt and a pair of boxers. He wandered out to the kitchen and stood in the cold glow of the refrigerator light for a while, but he wasn't hungry. He went into the living room and sprawled out on the couch, but he wasn't tired. He went outside and stood in the backyard, listening to the kids on spring break, partying down on the beaches late into the night.

If anyone asked him (and many people did-- the Vecchios were well-liked in their neighborhood and the bowling alley was a popular hangout for bored teens and the local leagues), Ray always said he was happy with his life. Content to travel the beaten path, satisfied to take what was given to him and smile about it.

Of course, that was a big fat lie.

The last case Ray solved was The Case Of The Missing Pearl Earring. Stella's earring, that she couldn't possibly go to dinner without. He felt like freaking Nancy Drew. Of course it was behind the dresser, and of course it took Ray approximately three seconds to find it. He remembered looking at the tiny blue pearl, and not recognizing it as one of his gifts to her. He'd asked, and Stella's eyes had gone wide for a second. She'd muttered something about having worn those earrings forever and not remembering where she'd gotten them. Ray had no choice but to assume that her ex-husband had given them to her.

If Ray were being honest, with himself, with Stella, with anyone really, he would admit that he wasn't happy. He was bored. Running a business wasn't easy, that was true, but it was a really boring kind of difficult. He was tired of people stealing the shoes and spilling their sodas, tired of wrangling with the vendors to get his deliveries on time, tired of waiting for a liquor license, tired of the sound of strike after strike and balls rolling down the gutters.

The air in the backyard was heavy and warm; the humidity hid all the stars but the brightest (and Ray was pretty sure those were planets anyway). He had no plans to say anything about his discontent. Stella loved it there; she loved her friends, and she loved kicking around the beach with Ray. He remembered her Chicago wardrobe: heavy conservative suits in bland, conservative tones. Stella wore color in Florida. Petal pinks, melony oranges, ocean blues. She was happy. And Ray wasn't about to change that.

  
9.

Ray slept through the red-eye from St. Petersburg. He started awake, feeling grungy and hung over, as the plane set down in O'Hare. Across the cabin a toddler began to wail, and Ray kind of wanted to wail too. Just sit in a corner and have a good cry, because what the hell else was he gonna do?

The early morning crowds swirled around him, hurrying off to their vital business meetings and long-awaited vacations. Ray felt like he was moving in slow motion, or everyone else was moving in fast forward, or something. Like he was in a montage in some crappy movie. Like he was a guy who had just agreed to his second divorce and had no idea what would happen to him in the next hour, let alone the next year.

He gathered his luggage from the carousel and wheeled it out to the taxi stand, even though he didn't know where he would go. The sky was still dark, a flat, hostile black-- like it saw you, decided it despised you, and thought it would dump dirty sleet on your expensive wool coat just for kicks. _Welcome to Chicago,_ Ray thought.


End file.
